


Presence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

by everybodylies



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Post - Internal Audit, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:50:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slowly but surely, Sherlock wins Bell back with muffins (Yorkshire pudding?), tales of adventure, and a lot of apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Presence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

**Author's Note:**

> TW: very brief mentions of pedophilia (It's not much at all, but I made this just in case)

“I can’t say I’m surprised to see you,” Captain Gregson says with a sad smile when Marcus returns to work a full week earlier than recommended.

Shrugging, Marcus replies, “Well, if I’m going to sit on my ass somewhere, it might as well be here.”

Gregson extends a hand to Marcus for a split second, before reconsidering and instead, patting Marcus warmly on the back. Marcus notices, of course.

“Regardless, it’s good to have you back. Get better soon, you hear?”

* * *

He’d known it was going to be hard to come back to work, and so he’d mentally prepared himself for everything. He was prepared to endure the constant outpouring of pitying looks and words, to have painfully awkward conversations with people who pointedly avoided the subject of his arm, and to sit at his desk, unmoving, as reports of murders came in over the police scanner. And ever since his discussion with the Commissioner, he’d been prepared to catch glimpses of Sherlock and Joan running around the station, still helping out, like nothing had even happened.

However, after his and Sherlock’s conversation in the hospital, he most certainly wasn’t prepared to look up and see Sherlock standing in front of his desk, fidgeting nervously.

“Good to see you, Detective,” Sherlock says, an unnaturally forced smile on the man’s face. “How are you?”

“I’m just peachy,” Marcus spits. “What do you want?”

“I had an epiphany during my last case,” Sherlock begins. “Thanks to Watson, I realized… that I am not as judicious as I once thought. I used to believe that the ends justified my means, but that does not always mean that the decisions I make are beyond reproach. There is always a better way. A way that does not endanger innocent bystanders and still leads to justice.”

Maybe, once upon a time, Sherlock Holmes learning that he is not always right would have brought Marcus some sort of satisfaction, maybe even pride. But, as Marcus clenches his left fist and fails to clench his right, he only feels bitter.

“The fact that you had to be injured in order for me to have this revelation is… incredibly regrettable. But I wanted you to know that I have changed, that I have learned. And that nothing of this nature will ever occur again.”

Marcus shakes his head slowly and, not bothering to remove the vitriol in his voice, says, “If you really think the only reason I still don’t want to talk to you is I’m worried this whole situation is going to happen again, then you’ve got another thing coming.”

“That’s not—I was—“

Marcus takes a moment to enjoy the flustered expression on the other man’s face, then turns his attention back to his paperwork. When he looks back up, Sherlock is gone.

* * *

The next day, Sherlock takes a seat beside Marcus’s desk. The man is persistent, he has to give him that.

“How are you today, Detective?”

Marcus doesn’t look up, doesn’t respond, but, unfortunately, Sherlock seems to take it in stride.

“We haven’t any cases today. I thought I’d come here and look at some cold cases. You haven’t heard anything interesting on the scanner, have you? Oh, has Watson told you? I’ve become a sponsor.”

“ _You_? A _sponsor_?” Marcus laughs harshly before he can stop himself, and he almost feels bad about it.

Still unruffled, Sherlock replies, “I know. That’s what I told Alfredo. He seemed to think I was ready, however. His name is Randy, which is unfortunate, but he’s quite interesting. He’s a writer, in fact. His prose is a bit too figurative for my tastes, but Watson seems to like it.”

Sherlock’s phone beeps, and he springs to his feet. “It’s Watson. Duty calls,” Sherlock announces, but he doesn’t leave. Marcus can still see his legs in the corner of his eye, and so, sighing, he finally looks up.

“What?”

“I’m not going to give up, you know,” Sherlock warns, gesturing wildly. “Of course, I recall your request that I not talk to you, and, were you a mere colleague, I would comply. Perhaps we are not friends, but we do have a relationship of some sort. We have a… _history_ , and that means I owe you more than one or two failed attempts at an apology.

“Naturally, if my presence causes you serious anxiety or displeasure, and you genuinely no longer wish to interact with me, say the word, and I will respect your wishes. But until then, I will continue.”

Sherlock stares at him expectantly, and Marcus realizes he has the ability to end this all right here. He thinks about their “history,” about almost two years of closing cases and catching murderers, of late night stakeouts and cheeky repartee.

“Tell Joan the pasta was delicious, wouldya?”

Sherlock’s steps sound light as he strolls away.

* * *

“Watson sent me with more baked ziti,” Sherlock says, dropping a bag by the desk, and Marcus silently thanks God. “Though, technically, what she has used here is penne.”

“Penne, ziti, linguini, tortellini, who cares?” Marcus says, wiggling his fingers eagerly.

“The Italians, for one.”

Marcus takes out a container from the bag. “What are these?”

“Oh, I made those for you,” Sherlock says proudly. “It’s Yorkshire pudding.”

“… These are muffins.”

Sherlock exhales slowly, as if he’d already had this conversation. “Well, try one, would you? And if you still believe they're muffins, we can discuss it.”

He tries one after Sherlock leaves, and _wow_ , is it disgusting. As he tips the remaining puddings into the trash can, he thinks of Sherlock wearing an apron and oven mitts, and maybe he smiles.

* * *

After a particularly tedious batch of paperwork, Marcus feels like he’s about to crawl out of his skin. He stands up and walks around the station, tries to make conversation, but everyone just talks about their cases, and it makes him even more antsy.

He strolls into the observation room of the interrogation room to find Joan watching Sherlock and Gregson question a suspect.

“Hey, Marcus,” she greets cheerfully, while still keeping an eye on the window. “How are you doing?”

“Not too bad,” he admits. He gestures to the interrogation. “You’ve got a case?”

“Yeah, and it’s pretty ugly. That guy in there is a suspected pedophile.”

Marcus whistles. Pedophiles could get even the most composed detective up in arms.

He looks into the interrogation room, only to find Sherlock sitting calmly, arms crossed. “And how did you come into possession of the children’s undergarments we found in your house?” Sherlock asks.

“I bought them for my niece,” the man shrugs, clearly lying.

“Used? You bought your niece _used_ undergarments?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Sherlock’s jaw tenses, and a vein starts throbbing in his neck.

“Sherlock better not lose his cool,” Joan mutters. “I hate the guy as much as he does, but we might need his cooperation later.”

Marcus watches as Sherlock finishes the questioning without raising his voice once, and he thinks.

* * *

Sherlock looks worse this day than usual. His eyes are red, tired, and his shirt has been stained with what seems to be pistachio ice cream. Something to do with a case? Marcus doesn’t ask.

“I am sorry that I did not visit you for five days,” Sherlock says. “In the hospital, I mean. It was selfish of me.”

Marcus has received this apology before, but this time it feels… different.

“I doubt you would have even been happy to see me, but I still should have visited. A hospital is not a place in which one should be alone.”

It wasn’t like he’d been lying dejectedly in his bed, hoping for Sherlock to show because, God, that sounds like he’d been _pining_. No, it wasn’t that. But there was that cold emptiness that he felt whenever Joan would show up, without her lesser half on her arm. And there was that hot anger that he felt when Sherlock finally showed up, only for the purpose to assuage his own guilt.

“So, what, you’re constantly visiting me at my desk to make up for it?”

Sherlock doesn’t look at him, instead fiddling with Marcus’s pencil sharpener. “That is… not entirely false.”

* * *

“I am curious to know how much of your physical therapy exercises you complete, Detective,” Sherlock asks idly. “Throughout the years, I have observed that even the most meticulous, diligent people tend to slack off on their physical therapy. Rarely do I find individuals who finish every exercise their doctor assigns them.”

Marcus switches his pen from his left hand to his right, and with some difficulty, scrawls half-legibly on a spare piece of paper:

_Sherlock Holmes is a twit._

_(And yes, I do all of it.)_

Sherlock smiles brightly. “You’ve made much progress, Detective! And I suppose I should have known you were one of those rare individuals, as I have always considered you quite exceptional.”

* * *

He doesn’t see Sherlock for six days, not that he’s counting, of course.

* * *

He comes in the next morning to find Sherlock bouncing energetically in the chair by his desk that Bell has unintentionally started to refer to as Sherlock’s chair.

“So, where’ve you been?” Marcus asks, as nonchalantly as possible.

“Apologies for not stopping by, Detective, but Watson and I were working the most fascinating of cases. I certainly would have made time to visit you, had we not been in Venezuela.”

“‘Fascinating,’ huh?”

“Truly. Would you like to hear about it?”

After weeks of monotonous desk duty, it takes Marcus every ounce of effort to not immediately shout, “Yes!”

“Why not?” he says instead.

“Well, it all started with this strange advertisement. It called for red-headed men…”

* * *

 Sherlock jogs over to Bell’s desk, a little breathless.

“You wanted to speak with me?”

“Sit down. I… need some advice. And wipe that smug grin off your face.”

“Advice from _me_? Well, I will do my best to assist you, Detective Bell, as always.”

Marcus takes a deep breath. “A couple months ago, I got this job offer from the Captain of the Intelligence unit. Said that if I didn’t recover, I could get a job with them. Help stop ‘the next big attack.’ Obviously, I was going to wait and see if my arm got back to normal before making a decision.”

Sherlock nods, listening closely. “An astute course of action.”

“Then yesterday, I get a call. They talked about the budget, about other applicants, and all this stuff which just boiled down to the fact that the offer was going to expire soon. I either accept the job today or lose it completely.”

Sherlock seems comfortingly calm as he ponders the situation. “What do the doctors say?” he asks eventually.

Marcus looks down at his right arm, makes a fist slowly but surely. “The same thing they’ve always said: they don’t know.”

“Right. Well, I’ll tell you what I think,” Sherlock says, with confidence that Marcus used to find irritating but now just feels reassuring. “I have always considered you to be an extraordinary individual, Detective. And I think that, even if your arm does not fully recover, you would find a way to continue doing the job you love. Be it shooting with your left hand, talking the Commissioner into making an exception for you, or who knows what. Nothing is impossible.

“And please don’t think that this is my guilt talking. You will find a way; this is my genuine opinion.”

Marcus breathes, nods. “I know.”

* * *

He knocks on the door to the brownstone and tries not to think about the fact that this is the first place he went.

Joan opens the door, and he holds up his badge. “‘Scuse me, ma’am. I am a fully reinstated, gun-carrying officer of the NYPD, and I have a warrant to search these premises.”

Joan breaks into a grin and reaches to hug him. “Congratulations, Marcus! I’m so happy for you. Come inside, I’ll make some coffee.”

She leaves him in the living room, and Sherlock wanders in, ridiculous goggles on his forehead. “Detective! Your arm has regained all movement, I take it?”

Marcus takes Sherlock’s hand, clasps it warmly. “I made it happen, yeah.”

“Fantastic! Are you on duty?”

“No, not yet. Tomorrow.”

“Do you have any other places you need to be right now?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day, Detective. Both Watson and I are currently unoccupied. So what would you like to do with your first fully-armed day?”

Marcus smiles, ponders the question. “I think… I want to go bowling.”

Sherlock visibly recoils. “ _Bowling_?”

“Yeah, bowling, Holmes. Are you coming?”

“I suppose so,” Sherlock grimaces. “I’ll go change.” He walks up the stairs, muttering under his breath.

Joan brings him coffee, and they sit to talk. “Can I ask what made you forgive him?” she says.

He shrugs. “Nothing, I think. Just time. Persistence. It’s hard to tell he cares. But he kept trying, and that was what mattered.”

She blows on her mug. “He’s changed, you know.”

“Apparently, bowling alleys are a common destination for dates or romantic outings,” Sherlock states when he comes back down the stairs, so matter-of-factly that Marcus isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to be getting a message or not. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Well, it’s _my_ arm, and my arm wants to go bowling,” Marcus says, helping Sherlock into his jacket.

“What about some single-stick? Remember, I was going to give you lessons?”

“Next week, Sherlock,” Marcus promises.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Concrit welcome, as always.


End file.
